However cringe-worthy all of this is, at some point we have to make our peace with it. Black Friday and the whole stinking mess that is Christmas is, after all, the logical end of a uniquely modern way of thinking.
Loach has rammed a wedge into the great divide of the cinema-going public; with the right writing the film off as an exaggeration, and the left gushing like loved-up teenagers.
To many the ideal getaway is a sun soaked beach on the Costas, to others it’s a wild four nights in Vegas, but then there are the rare few who’d rather A-Team up an old rust bucket and become famous. We found those very people. More power to them.
Owing to the rigorous streamlining of everything up here by our masters in Westminster, few of us Jocks have ever seen a 90 year old woman. So naturally we were eager to get the party going.
You can’t beat that sort of carry on with a stick. Now I’m not sure if this newfound sense of humour makes up for all the times they have beaten me with a stick, but it does show that there is something happening between their ears.
Looking in the mirror no longer shows me an image of how I think I look. Now it asks me questions about the future and reminds me that I am no longer the fairest in the land. My young maths students crack the odd joke about me developing bald spot and I find myself envying their youth and stupidity.
So the cooking of the proverbial goose has been brought forward a few days. Just to add to the risk of breaking teeth on lead shot from the meat a doorway had to be removed so as to get a table (that had to be dismantled and re-assembled) from one room to another.
Why, for example, would a people so utterly besotted with sugar and fatty foods – as many Scots have been (myself included) – reckon that only millionaires would slap a layer of caramel and chocolate atop their shortbread?